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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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All Entries 2002
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Accordianist

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (2312 reads)
His old accordian he played

Accordianist

His old accordian he played
            With virtuosity.
Such trills and triolets he made,
            And though he could not see,
Oh! How delightful to his ear,
            How gladly he would grin,
As in his darkness he could hear
            The pennies fill his tin.

Poor devil! He'd been blind from birth,
            And never had he known
The radiant excellence of earth,
            In night he lived alone.
Despite the music in his soul
            With life so sour and grim,
The chink of pennies in his bowl
    God's music was to him.

I thought: Could he but give to me
            A trifle of his skill,
How heaven-happy I would be
            To harmonize the trill.
Nay, it is not an idle whim,
            Though foolish-like it sounds,
I swear if I could play like him
            I'd pay a hundred pounds.

And so I listen in the rain
            To his appeggios;
His raw-red hands he chafes in vain,
            A blob hangs from his nose.
And as his misery  I grieve,
            Yet deem his notes divine,
With envy in his tin I leave
            A five-pound note of mine.


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